It wasn’t until I got back to my own room and began getting ready for cocktails that I could think sympathetically of Helena.
If those damned pieces of crystallized carbon affected me as they had done, what must they do to Helena? I will do myself some justice; it wasn’t only the value of the stones that fascinated me, it was the beauty of the workmanship. The Renaissance jewellers weren’t simply craftsmen, they were the great artists of the period. Cellini was a sculptor as well as a goldsmith; Ghirlandaio, Verrocchio, and Michelozzo worked as jewellers. The ‘Doors of Paradise,’ those matchless bas-reliefs at the Baptistery in Florence, were designed by a goldsmith named Ghiberti.
The unknown workman who had copied the Charlemagne talisman was in good company. I wondered if any of the jewels I had seen that day were fakes.
I guess this is as good a time as any to talk about fakes. It isn’t a single subject, it is a dozen subjects, because the techniques used in imitating jewellery, for instance, obviously differ from the methods used for porcelain or paintings. But all imitations have one thing in common, and that is this: if they are well done, it is practically impossible to tell them from the real thing.
The stuffier connoisseurs and art critics like to think they can spot a fake masterpiece by its stylistic failings alone. After all, if Rembrandt was so great, he should not be easy to imitate. This is a nice theory, but it is wrong. Every single museum in the world, including the snootiest, has objects tucked away in the basement that their experts would like to forget about – forged paintings and sculptures that they paid through the nose to get because they thought the pieces were genuine. Oh, sure, once a piece of art is known to be a fake – because the forger confessed, or chemical tests exposed it – then it’s easy to pick the thing apart. ‘The drapery in the imitation Greek bas-relief is not as crisp and sure as in the original . . .’ Bah, humbug. The best of the experts have been fooled.
Take the case of Van Meegeren, who was probably the most famous and most successful art forger the world has ever known. If he hadn’t confessed, his fake Vermeers would still be featured in museums. His was a rare and lovely case of poetic justice, because he had to confess in order to save himself from a far more serious charge. During the German occupation of Holland, Van Meegeren sold one of his paintings to that clod Goering, who thought he was a connoisseur. Goering believed he was buying a genuine Vermeer, of course. Unfortunately, so did the Dutch government, and after the war, when they were catching up with traitors and quislings, they arrested Van Meegeren on a charge of collaborating with the Nazis – specifically, for selling national art treasures. The really amusing thing about the case was that when Van Meegeren confessed to faking dozens of Vermeers, the art world refused to believe him. What – the great ‘Supper at Emmaus’ a fraud? Nonsense. It was obviously by Vermeer; in fact, it was his masterpiece! Not until Van Meegeren painted a new Vermeer, in his cell in the city jail, were the sceptics convinced. Then – such is human nature – they all started picking flaws in the paintings they had once hailed as treasures.
I knew something about how paintings are faked. I also knew that the only sure way of detecting a good forgery is by means of chemical and physical tests. For instance, a careless modern forger might use paints such as synthetic cobalts, ultramarine, or zinc white, which weren’t manufactured until the nineteenth century. But a good forger would avoid such sloppy errors. Van Meegeren was careful to use only the pigments obtainable in Vermeer’s day. They are still available; there are no ‘mystery pigments’ or unknown techniques. Most forgers know enough to use old canvases, and they are skilled at imitating things like cracks and wormholes and patinas. There are all kinds of tricks. I’m sure – and any honest art historian will admit it, after a drink or two – that there are still lots of forgeries adorning the sacred halls of the world’s great museums. As for private collectors, they are hopelessly outclassed, especially if they buy things of questionable origin. They daren’t consult appraisers or scholars if they suspect the objects are stolen.
I felt sure that a great deal of antique jewellery had been faked, too, but the only piece I could remember reading about was the Saitaphernes tiara. A tiara is not necessarily a delicate half crown like the ones worn by fairy princesses. This piece was shaped like a tall pointed hat made of thin gold and covered with embossed scenes and inscriptions. The inscriptions had been copied from genuine Greek texts, so they sounded authentic, and the workmanship was good enough to fool the boys at the Louvre, who bought it for that great collection! The jeweller was a Russian named Rouchomowsky. Like Van Meegeren, he had a hard time making the art world accept his confession when he finally broke down. Again let me repeat – there are no lost techniques. Rouchomowsky had learned how to perform the ancient art of granulation – designs formed by tiny beads of gold, no bigger than grains of coarse sand, each one of which is individually welded into its place. Some of his forgeries were excellent copies of ancient Etruscan goldwork.
If Rouchomowsky could do it, so could someone else. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this gang had an undetectable racket. The only certain method of detecting fakes is by scientific tests, and if you use authentic materials, there is no way in the world they can test wrong. Gold is gold. It varies in purity, of course, but a careful faker would make sure he used the same type normally employed by the Greek or Renaissance craftsmen he was copying. Imitation jewels used to be easy to spot, but nowadays, since the discovery of synthetic jewels, a well-made piece can virtually defy laboratory tests. I wondered why Schmidt was so sure he had the genuine Charlemagne talisman. If I had been in his shoes, I would have taken good care of both of them.
I put on my one long dress – black jersey, very slinky – and took out my own personal jewellery collection. I must say it looked rather tacky.
Chapter Six
THE MEN WERE wearing dinner jackets; and if I had not felt less than kindly towards ‘Sir John Smythe,’ I would have had to admit that formal wear suited his slim build and fair hair. His cummerbund was nice and flat. Poor Pietro looked like a melon with a purple ribbon tied around it.
The dowager was sitting by the drawing-room windows, in a tall carved chair like a throne. Her presence subdued her son slightly. He had to confine his amorous proclivities to Helena, since the old countess beckoned me to her side and kept me engaged in conversation.
She was cute. She reminded me of my grandmother. Not that they looked alike; Granny Andersen was a typical Swede, big-boned and blonde even in her seventies, with eyes like blue steel chisels. But they were both matriarchs. The dowager had a passion for fashionable scandal. She wanted to know all the latest celebrity gossip. I wasn’t up to date on that subject, but I was a good listener. We both agreed, regretfully, that while recent American presidential wives might be very nice ladies, they had not contributed much to the world of glamour.
Before long, young Luigi wandered in. He looked vaguely around the room, as if he had forgotten what he came for; then he caught his grandmother’s eye and ambled over to her. She put out her thin, veined hand and drew him down to a seat on a low stool at her side. They made a pretty picture sitting there – sweet old age and attentive youth.
‘My darling, you have not greeted Doctor Bliss,’ said the dowager fondly.
Luigi looked up at me. I felt a slight shock. He might look dreamy and disconnected, but his eyes were furiously alive – black, blazing, intent.